


A Settling of Accounts

by PFDiva



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 11:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PFDiva/pseuds/PFDiva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bro wants to make sure Dad is ready.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Settling of Accounts

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this image](http://flashyredturk.tumblr.com/post/46829881931/so-i-have-this-theory-dadbert-gets-pissed-off) and the assumption that all the guardians know Sburb is coming.

You feel faintly bad about the fact that you have laid out your son's best friend's guardian, but that is subsumed by the pure satisfaction of the fact that he is mercifully SILENT.

You'd taken the jabs about your clothing, your home, your hobbies with what you felt was reasonable aplomb and grace.

You'd withstood his crass behavior, crass language and crass assumptions with less grace.

When he'd migrated from tracking mud across your freshly-mopped kitchen and relatively clean carpets to insulting your son, you'd finally had enough.

You'd surprised him by catching him by the shirt, pressing into his personal space to snarl venomously at him.

"You done fucked up, son."

"Oh, shit!"

He'd sworn, startled and caught off-guard, unable to utilize the speed you'd seen Dave demonstrate and long-suspected he'd learned from his guardian.

And then you'd beaten his face in.

Well, that's not entirely accurate.

You'd hit him in the face twice before he recovered himself and fought back.

The two of you had grappled throughout the living room.

He was a better fighter than you'd expected.  You'd been sure that he devoted most of his time to developing the physique he had by means of weight-lifting, but apparently his muscles were functional, and not just for show.

You are visually a bit less impressive than him, but over two decades of kickboxing has done you well.

You'd eventually gotten him against the fireplace, and with a well-placed hook, you'd bloodied his nose and cracked his head against the stone, causing him to reel, throwing an arm out to catch himself.

Fortunately, he missed your mother's urn by a vast margin, though you consider hitting him again for good measure.

But you know when a fight's over.

You've won.

He's lost both his shades and cap, and you're pretty sure you've stepped on your hat.

Twice.

But even though his nose is staining his shirt scarlet, and he's squinting against the light in your home, he's got this bizarre grin on his face.

"Well, I'll be damned, Egbert."

"Only if you are lucky.  I'd like you to leave my home now."

His head flops in a vague gesture that might be a nod of acknowledgement, and he searches the floor, presumably in search of his shades and hat.

The shades are smudged, but intact, the hat deformed and half hidden beneath the couch.

You watch him collect his things in silence, and follow him to the door, where he pauses.

"You know the end's coming, right?"

"Please leave, Mr. Strider."

"April 13th, Egbert.  They're gonna have to figure out how to survive without us."

"I'm the one who told YOU that, Mr. Strider."

"You gotta make sure he's ready.  He won't be ready if you're not ready."

You've been desperately attempting to not think about the game that you have known for 13 years would snatch your son out of your life, and murder you.  You don't appreciate the reminder.

"Mr. Strider.  We are DONE here.  Get out of my house before I throw you out."

He gives you a lopsided grin and leaves.

You do not weep hopelessly once the door is shut behind him, out of helpless fear for the son you never expected and weren't sure you wanted who is, nonetheless, yours.

Really.


End file.
